


sticky notes and shit posts

by Pan_with_no_plan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes is a self deprecating piece o shit, Fluff, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, attempt at fluff, basically everybody hates themselves, i love my children, i think, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pan_with_no_plan/pseuds/Pan_with_no_plan
Summary: Noting about his pain matters. Not his nightmares, or how he flinches away from every possible aspect of life. It doesn't matter because he does not matter.You know who fucking does?Steve. Steve Rodgers.[aka Bucky tries to reintegrate into the world, Steve tries his best at helping him, and Clint Barton shows up at some point and ruins everything.]





	sticky notes and shit posts

**Author's Note:**

> k this is the second fanfic i have ever actually written pls don't be too harsh (but constructive criticism is appreciated)
> 
> :)

In the end, it isn't the crushing darkness that creeps into the edges of his mind and leaves him feeling raw - usually when he's caught off guard or distracted - that becomes the worst thing about his so called recovery. Nor is it jerking into consciousness at that stage in the night were everything feels ghost-like and translucent, yet the blood staining his hands and smeared across the bedsheets seems jarringly _real_.

He's lost count of how many times he's flinched at a load noise or sudden movement; not physically, of course. He could never show weakness or fear in the face of his targets. But every moment, he is constantly tense; waiting, watching, scrutinising his surrounding for something, _**anything**_ to put a bullet through.

He'd once been known as one of the worlds most deadliest assassins - feared and unquestioned, he could force whole counties to the ground. Yet his own mind can creep up on him without a warning; steal the breath from his lungs, and the steady beat from his heart. Replace his usual, faceless mask, with another; a cracked, broken mess, that does nothing to protect him from the sting of reality.

 _And he hates it_. Hates that this is what he's become. Yet he knows, not really that deep down at all, that this is what he deserves.

But, all this, all his suffering, is just a background drum - a dull ache in the depths of his mind, or what is left of his mind. It doesn't matter, he doesn't matter. He knows this. Fact. He does not matter.

_You know who fucking does?_

Steve.

Steve rogers.

When he crawled his way out Hydra, cut and bruised and barely breathing, one word was scratched into his brain, repeating on loop, with no sign of ending. One word, when everything else was blurred and confused, that one constant was all he heard for the days, weeks that followed.

Steve.

Steve is... golden. Pure. Like sunbeams that filtered through dusty air in the hazy hours of the morning, when everything was still, and it would seem like four pale walls were the only thing that remained on the planet, floating in a sea of light. Peaceful. He has not felt a calm like that in _decades_ , not since _before_. But Steve, Steve can help ease the pain, if only slightly. Can help him remember those mornings, and the cool summer nights. Can give him even a sense of _a sense of_ hope that those moments they used to share could be shared once more. That he could actually recover, climb his way out of this hell hole and feel the sun pierce his skin with light.

But when Steve retreats, taking his light and warmth with him, he remembers that he can't. That he isn't strong enough. Isn't half the man Steve believes him to be.

And that's the problem. Even worse than the sleepless night or the burning days. Steve actually _believes_ in him.

And he can see Steve's small encouraging smile break, whenever Bucky can't break through the static in his mind to recall a name or a place from _before_ , can't seem to concentrate on the present, on the fact that he's safe now, frustration seeping through his mind. And the smile returns, always returns, but more forced, wobbling at the edges.

 _And he hates it_ , hates that he put that pain in Steve's mind.

Steve. God, Steve deserves so much more than him.

\-- • -- • --

He wakes. Eyelids splintering open to reveal the hazy light of early autumn.

 **Identification** :  ~~The Asse~~ James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. **Location** : Stark Tower Complex, Midtown Manhattan, New York. ~~**Mission**~~. **Notable info** : He is free. Hydra has fallen. He is safe.

The Bucky from before would surface from sleep with noise; stretches and yawns, twisting and turning until he would either eventually rise, or fall into unconsciousness for another few hours. Now though, he can't seem to make a sound. His breaths are steady; the plain sheets hardly even rustle as he sits up.

Silence. The walls of his ~~cell~~ room are bathed in a warm glow.

 _A smirk. A burst of laughter that quickly buckles into a rattling cough. Worn and calloused fingertips, smudged with charcoal_.

Steve. Steve is near. Has been living on the same floor as him for the past few weeks now, on one of the larger apartments in Stark's tower, despite Bucky's obvious protest. He doesn't want to hurt Steve - doesn't remember much about their life together back in Brooklyn, only flashes; scraps torn up and frayed, like discarded polaroids, but knows that he protected Steve. Fought tooth and claw to keep him on his feet, and he's damned if he is going to be the one to throw him back to the ground.

_A golden streak across the greyed landscape of Brooklyn. The careful scratch of pencil led on paper. Bright eyes. Blue._

He treads towards the kitchen, straining to hear any sign of someone else in the apartment. A voice, or the creak of a wooden floorboard.

The quiet sound of a radio drifts through the hallway, accompanied by a gentle hum. A steady tune, accompanied by a crackling bass that filters through the walls of the apartment.

As Bucky skirts into the open room, he immediately focuses in on Steve. Steve, swaying to the beat of the classical piece, dressed in a pastel t-shirt and baggy jeans, bare toes poking out from the ends that trail across the floor. Bucky freezes, refuses to disturb this delicate peace. Steve moves from the marble surface to the wooden cupboards, china bowls clinking as he reaches to remove one from the shelf.

Bucky could easily stay there, watching him for an age without Steve noticing but, selfishly, Bucky needs him to turn, face him. Let the light that is Steve drown out the shadows still crowded into his mind.

"Hey."

Steve turns, a shy smile breaking across his sleep-wrinkled face.

"Hey yourself. Sleep well?"

He shrugs, feeling stiff; _awkward_. Doesn't speak again. He rarely does these days, other than a few curt words every so often; to grab attention or show understanding of ~~orders~~  information, and to hardly anyone other than Steve.

"I'm making pancakes, if you want any." Steve smiles again, and the expression appears so natural on his face. Bucky wonders how he does it. How he can feel so at ease within the world. So peaceful. Bucky would gladly give his other arm for just a brief sense of that calm.

He turns, and retreats into the dimly lit living room, curtains still pulled across large windows looking out onto the city's skyline. A small vase sits on a table, a few dark flowers reaching up past the lip.

_The whistling of a cold breeze passing trough broken slats. The wooden creak of worn floorboards. Muffled screams._

~~_His?_ ~~

Bucky reaches out, fingertips catch on the cloth, and drags the curtains back. New York. Lights. So many lights, even as the sun shines down across steel and brick. He could almost laugh at the waste. Cars rush by, smaller than ants. Trains graze paths across metal streams, and planes dot the cloud streaked sky.

It should make him feel powerful, Bucky thinks distantly. Suspended up here, above everyone else. It doesn't. Standing by the clear glass, the light from the city illuminating the darkened room, Bucky feels tiny. He sees all the separate lives being played out below him. Every businessman and taxi driver, policewoman and fast food server, each with their own mind and morals and perception of the world. They'll never notice him, standing high above in a glass tower, and it's likely he'll never see them again.

So many people.

The world has grown. While he was stuck, disappearing behind the horizon. He thought he knew the earth when he was growing up, thought it'd always stay in place, then he blinked and the ground beneath him had shifted. Once he was one in under two billion. Now it's multiplied to such a degree he can barely fathom it.

Why did Steve bring him here. There are so many others better than what he holds of the mangled scraps of his soul. Hell, Steve could pick any civilian off the street with the certainty of finding someone more worthy than Bucky. No being on this planet is less deserving of the light Steve emits with every fibre of his body than Bucky. No one but Bucky looks down to find blood on their hands so dark it's almost black.

So much blood.

Why. Why is he here.

He shouldn't be here.

He can't be here.

He is darkness. Evil. He.

He shifts to gaze at the streets below, now blurred, the colours merging together like paint.

He is so small.

\-- • -- • --

"Bucky?"

~~No not Bucky no no no don't let them hear that name stop they'll make you forget again no~~

"Hey, buddy. Woah, slow down there."

~~no you have to run run so the faceless shadows can't find you faceless men with burning hands and oh god run runrunrun~~

He's hallway across the floor before he even opens his eyes. Too bright. He closes them again, attempts to sit down slowly, but ungracefully collapses instead.

Hands are on him before he can think, too warm against his icy skin. He stiffens, pulls away savagely, a cornered dog barking back, too weak to harm anyone but itself.

It curls up on itself, knees pushing against its jaw. Rough carpet pressing against its face. Pain. Deep in its gut, reaching out through the darkness.

~~a flash of red hair soaked with redder blood and a woman with a knife for a smile a smile dripping with red oh god so much~~

"Bucky? Bucky, I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry."

What had happened. He'd been at the window, then on the floor. A sense of... pulling away from himself. Then pain.

He reaches for the voice, grasps a few more syllables. "...breaths. Can you... Bucky..."

He descends back into the dull blackness behind his eyes.

\-- • -- • --

He inhales silently. Exhales with a quiet sigh.

Shit.

The sunlight that hangs in the air is is fainter, the air feeling heavy compared to this morning. Bucky lifts his head off the sofa that he doesn't remember lying down on, cheek creased by the pillow, and glances across the light dappled room.

No Steve.

He stands, pads over to the kitchen on his bare feet. A small plate has been placed on the marble counter. The note scribbled on a folded card beside it reads

' _Out avenging. Text me if you need anything. - S.'_

The plate is stacked with a dozen fluffy pancakes, and Bucky turns his mouth up in something that could resemble a smile.

He takes a small bite of the first one, and wonders when the hell Steve learnt to cook, because Bucky had always been the one hovered at the stove back in Brooklyn. (He thinks so anyway, though that doesn't count for much these days.) And these pancakes are _good_.

He turns towards the window, the tallest buildings piercing the sky now furrowed with darkening clouds.

The room is silent.

Inevitably, the shouts and screams soon come rushing back, gunfire muted as heard though water. As if he sits in the depths of a bottomless ocean, encased in an icy prison hundreds of meters deep. Weighing him down. Obscuring his senses.

He notices the jagged shards of the vase laying beside the cooker. He must have knocked it over when he fell to the floor. Deep red flowers abandoned at the base of the sink.

He fucked up. He fucked up and thought about his past for too long and questioned his right to be here and then freaked out. A lot. Basically everything he'd been building up in the past few days that could vaguely be seen as mental stability had just crumbled to the ground.

Again. He'd felt so scared. The darkness had been so _present_ , the nails scratching at his skull had felt so _real_.

He should be better. He has to be better.

For Steve.


End file.
